


A Midsummer Daydream

by ticketybye, tyrionsonoftywin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Body Image, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley plays the guitar, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gabriel is an asshole, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Hugs, Internalized Homophobia, Italy, Kissing, M/M, Self-Hatred, Seriously He's Self-Deprecation Central Just a Heads Up, Smut, Summer, Summer Love, Summer Romance, Teenage Drama, like... a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticketybye/pseuds/ticketybye, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrionsonoftywin/pseuds/tyrionsonoftywin
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are 18. They meet in Capri one summer and fall in love. Things do not go as planned.Or: the Italian Summer AU no one asked for, but we all needed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Capri Rendez-Vous

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, pals, we're going for a wild ride.   
> This one is a bit of an experiment. Tyrionsonoftywin and I were talking about a GO Summer AU and she went, "what if we had alternating 1st person POVs and some nice Italian scenery and made their life a living hell?" So we wrote the thing in real time on Google Docs. And here we are. She's Crowley's voice, I'm Aziraphale's.   
> Stick around, all ends well and our boys discover themselves in the process.

I can’t believe that Father managed to drag us here again. I am _eighteen_. I am done seeing these obnoxious people, staying in that dreadfully obnoxious house, eating Mum’s experimental macrobiotic dishes. _It’s summer, it’s the perfect time to get healthy!_ Get healthy _my ass_ , if you will excuse my French: ice cream is the only thing that’ll make me forget, for five blissful bloody minutes, how much I despise this bloody season. And it’s so hot. How does it get _hotter_ every time I come here? I feel like I might combust. Not even good old Leo can keep me cool this year.   
“Yo, Zira, what are you doing, wearing that tent? You’re sweating like a pig.”  
The Big American Prick. The absolute bane of my existence. The demon put aside specifically for me, getting more ripped and obnoxiously attractive each passing summer. _Gabriel_. Wonderful. Just what I needed.  
“I’m all right, thank you.”

It’s summer, _finally_. Favourite time of the year, favourite season, favourite… well, everything.   
First, because I’m done with school for at least two months (and this particular year was the worst: teachers were always like _Crowley do this_ and _Crowley do that_ and _Crowley, you can’t set the chemistry lab on fire and think you can get away with it_. The last one was the principal, actually).   
Second, because Italy is wonderful. Capri is wonderful. This place is like the Garden of Eden. And Anathema did say she saw a snake somewhere, so...  
And the company is good. Well, _good_ is a strong word. It’s... not awful. Sure, Gabriel is a bit of a douchebag sometimes but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I walk towards him with the ball in my hands, wondering if I should cut my hair. Dad and Mum aren’t too happy with me, since the chem lab, so they are fussing over every little thing I do. My hair is one of them: I like it long. And it’s not that long anyway, it barely touches my shoulder. They, apparently, don’t.   
But they have a long list: the glasses, the fact that I pierced my ear without asking them...  
Anyway. Gabriel is talking to someone. I’m about to scream, _hey loser, just what the fuck are you doing? We’re in the middle of a game!_ But then I realise he’s talking to _Aziraphale_. The same Aziraphale I’ve had a crush on since _forever_ and hasn’t spoken to me in _forever._ _Act cool, Crowley. Act cool.  
_“Hey loser, just what the fuck are you doing? We’re in the middle of a game!”   
Ooops. 

“No, I’m serious, Zira, that is _not_ a good look.”  
I sigh. This individual. I wish he was banished - pulverised; eradicated; exterminated - by a higher power - any, really, I’m not picky - from the face of the Earth, or at the very least from the face of this island. And _Zira_ ? You couldn’t find a commonality between me and that evil cartoon lioness if you tried. Not that she’s _really_ evil, she’s just a single mother and a victim of unfortunate circumstances. But that’s beside the point. “Gabriel, I do have a name, and while I realise it’s quite a mouthful, I’d be grateful if you would…”  
“Why do you always talk like you have a stick up your arse?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“ _Quite_ here, _would you kindly_ there, who do you think you are, Az? Why don’t you chillax a bit, come play with us, meet the girls… though perhaps that’s not your area, eh, champ?”  
Ah. There it is. He contained himself for exactly six minutes before making the first homophobic joke of the season.   
“Don’t you have a game to go back to, Gabriel? What’s your interest in my beach activities?”  
“Hey now. We’re old buddies. I’m just trying to help out.”  
“As I said, I’m perfectly fine.” I show him the book. Might as well play his game, be who he thinks I am. “I’ve got all the company I need right here.”  
He chuckles. Gives me a light punch in the stomach before I have a chance to say _don’t_ , to move away. A threat disguised as affection: don’t I know all about that. “Suit yourself.” And with that he trots back up to his mates, his oiled muscular back bathed in sunlight.   
Well. Back to the book, then.

Aaand Aziraphale doesn’t notice me. Has he ever, really? I think the only time we spoke was when he cried because I destroyed his sandcastle. But I was five and I didn’t know it was his sand castle. And I had a thing for destroying sandcastles. (I may still have it, honest. Kids and their obsession with castles, truly something else.)   
I didn’t catch what he and Gabriel were saying: Gabriel looks smug, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem upset like everyone who talks with smug-Gabriel. He’s reading a book, as always.   
“You really should leave him alone,” I say, and Gabriel looks at me like I’ve just said a bunch of bullshit.  
“What? Why do you even care, Anthony? I don’t recall you two being best friends.”   
“We’re not.” _Thank fuck_ , I think. _Imagine having a crush on your best friend_ . ACD taught me enough on the subject. “He hasn’t done anything to you, though, and still every summer you can’t keep yourself from bothering him. If I were you, I’d practice playing volleyball in my free time, instead of being an ass. You’ve gotten worse. Too busy bullying people at your place, too?”   
“Where is this coming from, now?” He is puzzled. I smirk.   
_Where is this coming from? At least six years of staring longingly at the guy_ . But I can’t tell him, can I? So I get back to Hastur and I throw the ball.  
And maybe I am still a little mad at Gabriel, though I don’t know what he’s said to Aziraphale, because the ball is going way too fast and… Oh, no… Oh my God…   
It hits Aziraphale’s head.   
So… _now_ he seems upset.   
(At least he’s looking in my direction. Right at me.)   
_Don’t smile, don’t smile.  
_ I do. Great, now he thinks I’m a bully too. He thinks I hate him. He thinks I’m like Gabriel. He still remembers the destroyed sand caste, doesn’t he? He hates me already.   
_Breathe_ , I tell myself, and I do. I’m going to talk to him. 

I feel the bruise before it’s even there. I can just picture it, red and angry, like a road sign on my forehead saying _I am a big idiot_ .  
The problem at hand is that, when you look like me, PE consists in being hit by balls and little else. Dodgeball, soccer, basketball: you name it, I carry the marks proving my lack of talent in it. Mostly the marks on my wounded pride.   
It’s not the being hit that’s the problem, not really: it’s the aftermath. The people coming to rescue you, and those coming to tease you to death. I don’t know what’s worse, frankly. Right. It is of the utmost importance, now, that I don’t cry. It never ends well, when I do. I only need to push through the humiliation. Maybe they haven’t seen me. Maybe they’ll just go on playing if I stay very, very still. God, I hate sports. I hate people who play sports. I hate…  
Who hit me, by the way? I look up and I see him, though I have to squint because there’s too much sun and also, I’ve just been hit in the head. It’s a red-haired guy. My, he has _beautiful_ hair. Maybe I’ve hit my head too hard. But it’s so long and shiny; nice.  
He’s looking at me and smiling. Less nice. How great, seems like I’ve gained a new fan. I wonder what new insults he will come up with. Well. He is Gabriel’s friend, or at least it looks like it. You can tell a man by the company he keeps. Just another asshole, then, with a nicer smile.   
Wait.  
Wait a minute.  
Is that _Anthony Crowley_ ?  
It is.  
Oh, God, why is he coming toward me, oh no, God, please no… 

“Hi.” I smile awkwardly. Aziraphale seems confused. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge my presence for a few seconds. I’m not really the type of guy who goes unnoticed, but I guess that Aziraphale Fell has other priorities.   
“Uhm… I’m sorry… really, so sorry, about the ball. I’m usually pretty great with balls.” _OH MY GOD_ . “Volley” I quickly add. “Volley... balls. I’m sorry. Really.”   
“You did say that three times already.”  
_Oh my God, he’s talking to me_ . Wait. _What did he say?_ I was too busy screaming inside to actually listen.   
I can’t look at him in the face right now. I grab the ball next to his chair and I feel like I really should say something else, besides I'm sorry.   
“You still like ice cream?”   
“What now?”   
Oh my God. _He doesn’t know._ He forgot.  
I clear my throat. “Um. When we were, like, five, I destroyed your sandcastle and you cried. A lot. My mum said she would buy you ice cream and you stopped, so… do you still like ice cream?” 

What is this, some sort of joke? Did Gabriel send him? Oh, this would be too cruel, even for him.  
Anthony Crowley. I remember him. How does he remember me?  
Mum would say, and quite rightly, that _he’s blossomed_. I remember a scrawny kid, running about, a sibilant lisp. I liked him. He invented the best games. And he wanted to play with me. He held my hand once.   
The Parents say he’s been up to no good, lately, back at school.  
I don’t remember anything about this sandcastle he’s going on about.   
How has he become so good looking? Better still, when? Really, his whole face should be illegal. Those cheekbones. And where has he been all these years? I don’t remember seeing him, talking to him. I might have been too busy hiding from the others, he made friends and I very clearly didn’t, but still - what a shame.  
There’s no way he’s anything but straight, is there?  
“Oi? You okay?”  
I’ve been staring too long, probably. I probably look like I have a concussion. “Sorry. Um. Dreadfully sorry, what did you just ask me?”  
“If I could, um, maybe buy you ice cream? To just… apologize for… you know what, never mind.”  
“No!” He turns around. “That is to say, if you really… well, if you insist… I was just thinking about getting a strawberry lolly. It’s, well, it’s really hot, isn’t it?”  
_Good job, Aziraphale_. A lolly is just good enough to make sense in this heat and not caloric enough to be judged for your life choices. Besides, it didn’t look like he was teasing. Maybe he’s just being nice.

I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with Aziraphale. Fifteen-year old Crowley is screaming so much inside my head that I almost can’t hear what he’s saying. He hasn't changed much since we were kids. He still has rosy cheeks (maybe that’s because he’s wearing a shirt in 40 degree weather, but I like it on him), blond curly hair, dreamy blue eyes and that beautiful, perfect smile. Also, it still makes me melt just to look at him.  
“Awesome,” I manage to say. “So… let me finish the game, okay? And then I’ll buy you one.”   
I turn around just in time to see Gabriel sneer at us and whisper something to Michael. Something doesn’t feel right.   
I decide I need a break, so I throw the ball to them and I look at Aziraphale again.   
“You know what? They can play without me for one round. I’m going to buy you ice cream now.”  
He seems surprised. Maybe he does think I’m like Gabriel. That hurts, somehow, though we really don’t know each other and he has every right to think I’m an asshole. Besides, that’s what most people think. Just because… you know, setting a chemistry lab on fire and destroying sandcastles isn’t stuff someone _angelic_ as Aziraphale would do.   
Oh, and now that I think about it… He _does_ look like an angel _._ How did I not notice?   
I’m not really religious. Mum, when she turned forty, had some sort of spiritual crisis and became one of those ladies that go to mass every Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday too. Dad doesn’t really care. I think Anathema goes to church on Christmas, only not to upset Mom. So that leaves me, a gay eighteen-year-old that can’t walk into a church without thinking that, for more than a half of the people there, he’s going to Hell. Though he’s only kissed one boy when he was sixteen and very, very drunk. Been there, done that. Wouldn't recommend it.   
But Aziraphale… Aziraphale looks like one of those angels in the paintings at church, and I can’t help but find it ironic. Also, I can’t help asking myself if angels are straight.   
We are the only guys of our “group” who haven’t done _stuff_ with any girls. At least, as far as I know. So that’s one thing.   
I can’t believe we’ve walked all the way to the bar without talking. I nod at the waitress, realising I know her. She’s a friend of Gabriel, she was probably at one of his parties last year.   
“Hi, Anthony!” Her Italian accent is strong, though she tries to hide it as best as she can. She smiles at me, and I try not to have a panic attack because I don’t want Aziraphale to think I’m flirting with her or some bullshit.   
“Hi, um…” _What was her name again?_ “Hi.”   
“Gabriella.” She seems annoyed. I can’t bring myself to care.   
“Sure. A strawberry lolly for my…” Oh god… should I say _friend_? We really aren’t. Whatever. Maybe he didn’t notice. I swallow hard. “...for him. Thanks.”   
I look for the money in my pockets, hand her 2€. 

“You’re Anthony Crowley,” I say, as Gabriella looks for the ice cream in the back. Immediately, I realise how idiotic that sounds. “I mean, I know you. Remember you, that is. I’m not sure how we’ve managed to ignore each other all these years.”  
He looks at me like I’ve said something absurd. And maybe I did; maybe it’s obvious to him that we’ve had no reason to interact until today. But then, he says, “Yup, um, that’s… that’s me. And you’re Aziraphale Fell. Aziraphale.”  
Two things happen. The first is the way he says my name. Elongating the z a little bit. Like a hiss. I’m immediately reminded of him as a child, the way he would stutter but still insist on saying it. Never shortening it; always taking it to the end, smiling wide with all his missing teeth afterwards, _Asssiraphale_ .   
The second is that this was quite a strange introduction. Me saying his name, him saying mine. It’s not how it’s normally done, and before I think about it, I’m laughing about it.   
He looks perplexed. I should explain. “I’m sorry, it’s just… Nice to meet you, then, I suppose, _again_ .”  
He smiles. Look at all the shiny pointy teeth he went and got himself. I wonder if his eyes are still the same after all this time. I remember they used to look almost golden in the right light. Mostly, I remember them looking kind. But right now he’s wearing Raybans, and his expression is inscrutable. “Same here, Aziraphale.”  
“Thank you for calling me by my proper name, by the way. Nobody ever gets it right. It’s only ever nicknames, for me. Gabriel found out I hated them a few years ago, to his absolute delight. It’s nice to hear it every once in a while.”  
“Gabriel’s an asshole,” he says, suddenly, his smile turning into a snarl. Meanwhile, Gabriella’s handed me the lolly, and I welcome the distraction. I unwrap it and pretend not to look at him, at the way his face has crumpled, for some reason.  
“I share that sentiment,” I say, cautiously, “but it’s just a name.”  
“It’s your name, and if you want to be called that, you should be called that.”  
I don’t know what to say. The bottom of the lolly is already starting to drip onto my hand. He’s being too considerate, too nice. In theory, I know this, and I appreciate it. In practice, I’m getting the strange feeling it was me who upset him.   
There’s no time to fix that; someone calls him from the field, and he turns his head towards them. He sighs. Then he looks back at me. “Look, will you stay a bit longer? Maybe we could walk back together. Only if you’d like. If you don’t have. Plans. Or something.”  
I whisper, “yes”. His lips curl up into a little smile. He runs away before I can say anything else.

When he unwraps that lolly, _Do I wanna know_ by Arctic Monkeys starts playing in my head. I don’t know why. Except I do. I’ve had the biggest crush on this guy for the last six years; must be a physiological reaction.  
“Antonio!” Gabriel _loves_ awkward nicknames. _Antonio_ is my name in Italian. He calls me that when he’s mad. I don’t really mind. Makes me cringe when people, besides my parents and Anathema, call me Anthony. I like Crowley better. I think it suits me. Also, all the friends I have in Oxford call me Crowley. I don’t know why I didn’t tell Gabriel, but it’s like I’m a completely different person here, with these people. A less gay troublemaker version of myself. Just a guy who likes playing volleyball and swimming, and doesn’t want to think about school.  
I realise that I want Aziraphale to call me Crowley. Maybe I should ask him to.   
He said he wants to walk back with me. So maybe we’ll talk again. And again.   
“I think Azi likes you, Antonio. Watch your back.” Gabriel says, looking like he’s winning some kind of game.  
I think I’m going to kill him. I should tell him I know how to start a fire.   
“I should be honored, if that was the case. He seems to like very few people. Only the good ones, apparently.”   
Michael, behind him, giggles.  
I lower my sunglasses, so I can look at him in the eye.  
Oh, he is _so_ losing this match.   
He does. Takes me five minutes.   
I strike the final points, one after another. I hope Aziraphale saw me.   
When I get back to him, there is no lolly in sight.   
“You finished it already?”   
I’m glad he liked it. I’m not a fan of sugar, but he seems to be one. Well, the more you know, right?

Oh, no, why is he back already? And why must all the problems in my life start with food?  
He’s going to think I stuffed my face with it. He’s going to think I swallowed it whole, and God knows that wouldn’t be a nice mental picture for him to have. He’s going to think I’m disgusting and greedy, no - he already thinks that. I should tell him the truth. But if I tell him the truth, he’s going to think I’m an idiot. Someone who lets children take their ice cream. A child myself.   
Oh well. You can’t unscramble scrambled eggs. Might as well choose the lesser evil.  
“I gave it away,” I whisper. God, I hope he doesn’t ask. Please don’t ask. Please get distracted by a girl in a bikini, or whatever else you like.   
“You what?”  
“I gave it away!” I say, a bit too loud, and then, “there’s this child, Lorenzo, lives right next to me… he asked his mother to buy him ice cream as soon as you left. But he’s a bit on the heavier side, and she put him on a diet. She said some… mean things to him. And he started crying. Oh, I don’t know, I felt terrible. I could relate, and besides, it isn’t fair, he’s such a sweet boy. And so, when she couldn’t see me, I gave it to him. Said _here you go, don’t thank me, and don’t let your mother see you_ . And here we are.”  
He says nothing. He just stands there and stares at me, mouth open, sunglasses on, still. I don’t know what to make of his reaction. I take it out on my cuticles, which I shouldn’t, my hands are a disgrace.  
This silence is killing me, and I have to fill it, somehow.  
“Oh, you must think I’m silly. I might have done the wrong thing, even.”  
“How?”  
“Well… his mother probably knows what’s best for him. It wasn’t up to me to decide.”  
“No, you… he…” He seems lost for words. He sighs. “I don’t think you’re physically capable of doing the wrong thing, Aziraphale.”  
I would thank him, if what he said didn’t sound completely absurd. _You don’t know me_ , I want to say instead, but for whatever reason, I don’t. Because it doesn’t feel quite true.

He freezes for a moment, and I wonder if adding something would make this situation less awkward.  
“It was nice of you. Super nice. Really, I mean it.” _Please, act like I never said that. I don’t know why I said that._ “I can buy you another ice cream, you know. My parents give me an allowance. It’s not the end of the world. Only if you want me to, obviously.” I am now doing a monologue, because Aziraphale isn’t saying anything back and I’m getting a little worried.   
“Yes, of course. I mean... I’m not one to refuse ice cream.”  
He smiles.   
One thing I like about him, I notice, and haven’t had a chance to notice before, is that when he smiles, he smiles with his whole face. His eyes light up, his mouth opens gently and even his eyebrows move.  
“Cool.”  
_What now?  
_ Why do my teachers say I, and I quote, _have a charismatic presence?_ I can’t even formulate a sentence. I’m really anything but charismatic, right now.   
“Could you call me Crowley?”   
He blinks. I don’t blame him. I’m so weird. I probably look like an alien to him.   
“Of course. No problem. But... Why?”   
I shrug. I don’t know either. “I like it better. But no one calls me Crowley here.”   
“No one calls me Aziraphale, either.”   
I offer him my hand. “So, it’s a deal.”   
He looks confused. “What?”   
“I’m calling you Aziraphale, you’re calling me Crowley.” 

I look at his hand.   
This still feels like a joke. I still feel like he’s going to pull the rug any moment now, make fun of me for even thinking he might have wanted to spend time with me, for no reason in particular - as if that could be true. People always want something, and they act nice, right until they find out I cannot provide it. But it doesn’t make sense: what could Crowley even want from someone like _me_ ?   
It is, needless to say, a nice hand. So many… well, bones. It’s long and skinny, a few freckles on his wrist, and I’m tempted for a moment to ask if he plays any instruments, because this is a musician’s hand if I’ve ever seen one.  
_Just shake it, Aziraphale_ .  
So I do. His palm is rough and warm and I’m suddenly incredibly worried about how my own hand must feel to him. I imagine it, unremarkable and chubby but at least - I hope with all my heart - not sweaty. This is horrible. This was a terrible idea. What am I even going to talk about on our way home, when here I am, panicking over a handshake?   
“Crowley”, I repeat, more to myself than to him, and I find that I like saying it. It sits nicely on my tongue, sharp and soft at once. “It does suit you better, I think.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yes, Anthony is…” I genuinely don’t know how to explain it in a way that won’t make me look insane, so I give up trying. “It feels like someone else gave it to you. Crowley sounds chosen.”  
_Insane_ .  
“Anyway”. I need to remove myself from whatever this is as quickly as possible, so I drop his hand, feeling its absence painfully and immediately. “Care to show me where you live? I hope we’re not too far from each other.”  
“Oh we’re actually very close.” It slips easily from his lips, and I watch his face turn into a mask of pure horror. “I didn’t mean… not that I know where you… well, I do, but only because I see your parents go in and out of the house all the time.”  
“You know my parents?”  
“I don’t _know_ them, I just. See them? See you. With them. Um, maybe we should get going, my mum is crazy about family lunch. Heh. Shall we?” He puts on an oversized t-shirt of some band I don’t recognise, seemingly pulling it out of nowhere, like a magic trick. I can’t help but feel a little put out that he’s covering himself. But then again, it’ll keep me from looking like a pervert for the rest of our interaction. 

Great, so now he knows I’m a fucking stalker. That’s simply amazing. Also, how is this guy so oblivious? I mean, his father is a fuckin’ diplomat. Of course everyone here knows him. I wonder what Mum would say. If she knew that I like the child of a diplomat.   
Only, he’s the diplomat’s _son._ And _oh my god, what would Jesus say about that?_   
“So…” I have to find a topic. _Now._ “The book.”   
_Good save_ , I say to myself.  
“The book you’re reading… what book is that?”  
“Oh, this? It’s _The Death of Ivan Il’ič_ . It’s... short, but incredibly touching, I think. Every time I read it, I find something new in it.”  
“That’s cool. I do that, too.” He seems suddenly curious. “ACD.” _I really shouldn’t call ACD_ **_ACD_ ** , I remember. “Arthur Conan Doyle.” I clear my throat. “Sherlock Holmes. Big fan.”   
“Oh! Of course. We studied him this year, but I haven’t read the books, myself. What do you like about it?”  
“Maybe I’m one on a million to think this, but my favourite thing is the relationship between Sherlock and John. _Watson_ . Holmes and Watson. I think… you know, they’ve found each other. They are connected, I can feel it through the pages. I’m probably explaining it in the dumbest way possible, but I envy them. I really wish I could have something like that, one day. Being the complete opposite of a person, and yet their twin, in a way. The other face of the coin.”   
“And you… aren’t? Or, never have been?”  
He looks at me like he’s surprised that I admitted I’m single. I am a tall, skinny guy. I don’t have any particular features that make me attractive. Or, at least, I don’t think so.   
“No. I’ve never found anyone like that. What about you?”   
He laughs, genuinely amused. “You’ve seen me. Do I look like I have?”  
_Is he saying he’s ugly?_ “I don’t know.” _Act cool, Crowley._ “You are… Erm… Good-looking.”

“Pardon?”  
This _has_ to be a joke at this point. Maybe Gabriel told him to do this, maybe he’s recording me as we speak. They’ll play the video at a party and have a good laugh. They could title it, _The Lonely Gay Life of Aziraphale Fell, Loser_ . Or maybe there’s a bet going, _how long does it take for a hot guy to make Aziraphale fall?  
_ “I said I think you’re good-looking. I mean, I don’t _think_ . I mean it. You know how many people would kill for those eyes?”  
I laugh again. I can’t help it. It’s ridiculous, the whole thing, though it’s admirable how well he’s been acting right until now. This was a bit too over the top.   
He seems vaguely hurt that I’m laughing. Maybe it’s just in my head; as I said, I can’t see his eyes. Part of me thinks I should really say, _tell me more_ , take him seriously. But most of me just cannot believe any of this, and most importantly, cannot risk the aftermath of such a farce. So I say, “you have been under the sun a bit too long, Crowley.”  
“What do you mean?” He sounds like he’s genuinely taken aback.  
“Either that, or Gabriel gave you incredibly detailed instructions. He should know better. I might be uncool, but I’m not stupid. There you go, there’s something about me you might not remember from our childhood.”  
“Gabriel? You think it’s a joke? Seriously? That’s what you think of me?” He’s stopped walking. He’s taken off his glasses. Admittedly, I lose track for a moment there - because it’s _those eyes_ , I have thought about them for years without even realising - but whatever he’s trying to prove, it won’t work. I know better. “Oh, come on. You can stop, now. It’s alright, I won’t hold it against you. You seem like a nice person, and I know how manipulative Gabriel and the others can be. But I know their games, and I’m sorry, but they won’t work anymore. I’ve grown up.” And then I stop looking at him and his bloody eyes, and start walking again.  
He won’t leave me alone, it seems. He catches up with me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait. Wait. Please. I am not playing any games. I’m not being manipulated, I swear. I just wanted to give you a compliment. And... Aziraphale. I assure you, there’s nothing wrong about you. _Nothing_ .”  
Well. What am I supposed to say to that? There’s something about the simplicity of what he said, _I just wanted to give you a compliment_ . As if it was that easy, that obvious. It makes it incredibly difficult to disprove. So I shrug, and try very hard to make my whole face say nothing more than, _that’s neither here nor there_. “Whatever you say, then. Thank you.”

I’m so relieved he listened to me. I sigh, and I put the sunglasses back on. I don’t really know what to say. He shrugged, so my hand is now floating awkwardly in mid-air, and I really shouldn’t think about how right it felt when it was on his shoulder. How easily my fingers curled into the thin fabric of his shirt, feeling _him_ through it. I really shouldn’t, because he’s clearly not interested in me.   
“Cool. Yeah, you’re welcome.”   
A second ago, I swear, I saw _something_ . In his eyes. I don’t know what, but that something is gone. He’s gone back to normal. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s only, you know, better safe than sorry. I want a quiet summer, and I don’t want any trouble, but the others always make that a little difficult.”  
_No trouble._ I am literally trouble incarnated. Many troubles, actually. Maybe this was a mistake.   
“I understand. Like I said, Gabriel’s an asshole. I don’t know why I spend so much time with him, actually. Guess it was fun when we were kids, but not anymore. I should have spent my summers with you.” I sigh. “Second compliment. You’re not gonna walk away again, are you? I think I’m faster anyway.”   
Quick fact about me: when Dad was teaching me to drive the moped, he always said I was too fast. That I have no patience. I’m _always_ too fast, actually. Not only on a moped. I’m a fast person. And the expression on Aziraphale’s face - his mouth and eyes wide open in shock - is telling me exactly that. It’s saying _I’m fast._ But I waited six years to talk to him. That’s a record of patience, for me.  
“Yes, you are, rather. You don’t even know me, Crowley.” He sighs. He is no longer looking at me, now. He is suddenly interested in one of the buttons of his shirt. “And besides, I don’t see what you’d have to gain, leaving them for me. They’ve got friends and places to be. I’ve got books and obvious trust issues.”  
_Slow,_ Crowley. _Slow.  
_ “Maybe. But they’re asses. You’re not. Or maybe you are too and, like you said, I don’t know you, but… I’d rather get to know you and eventually find out you’re an ass than stay with people I already know and that I don’t like that much. What do you say? Makes sense to you?”   
“I’m only _saying_ that it wouldn’t be the wisest choice for you to make. You’ve seen how they look at me, how they talk to me. Do you really want to be associated with _that_ ? You’re welcome to... fraternize with whomever you like, I’m just suggesting you might want to think twice about ruining the rest of your summers here.”  
“Okay, first of all: we’re eighteen. Who cares about the _wisest_ choice? And second: I’m not going to be associated with you, you know why? If you want, from tomorrow on, I’m going to take you exploring Capri every day. We’ll see Gabriel, Michael and the others when summer’s over. What do you say, Angel?” _Oh, fuck._ “Aziraphale. I meant. I’m sorry. I was thinking… I was thinking of a song I like. You hate nicknames, I got it.” 

This is insane. He is insane. I have somehow jumped dimensions and found myself in a version of reality that looks similar, but is fundamentally different from my own. I don’t understand: why he acts like he cares about what I think, like he is ready to leave everything behind at the snap of my fingers. It does _not_ make sense. We don’t know each other, and if we ever did, it was a long time ago, in a world that looked nothing like this.  
“You know, I am named after one. An angel, that is.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this; at this point I’m simply letting myself be carried away by the river of insanity we have apparently decided to navigate.  
He gives me a smile so big and bright I’m almost blinded by it. “So you like it? I promise you, I’m still calling you Aziraphale. But… you know what you said about Crowley? I think that Angel suits you. The blonde hair, the blue eyes. But they must tell you that all the time.”   
“They do not, in fact, because I frequent reasonable people.” I smile back at him; I can’t help it. “I don’t mind, Crowley. But people are going to get all sorts of ideas if you do call me that in public, I don’t think you’ve thought that through.”  
He shrugs. “At my school, I’m the one who set a chemistry lab on fire. Here, if what you say is true, I’ll be the one who calls Angel a guy who looks like one. Which one’s the worst?”  
Damn him and his charming smile, and damn me - but I’m already well on my way for that, aren’t I? “You’re going to do what you want, no matter what I tell you, aren’t you?”  
“Let’s say this: if you’re an angel, I’m a demon. Which reminds me, I’m surprised you didn’t ask about the lab.”  
“There was no need. All the parents know about it already. And they like me, so they tell me a lot that they don’t tell their own children.”  
“I should’ve expected this. So you are gonna lose the good boy privilege, if you spend the summer with me. Now what’s the _wisest choice_ , Aziraphale?”  
“Don’t be daft, dear.” Suddenly feeling bold and a bit drunk from the midday heat and, possibly, the prospect of my eternal damnation, I reach to swat away a fly that’s had the audacity to land on his shoulder. While my hand is there, I might as well adjust his t-shirt. In for a penny. I can’t wrap my head around how warm he is. He smells like saltwater and sunscreen, more like summer than anything I’ve smelled before. “If there is evil, someone must thwart it. I’m obviously agreeing to this for the good of the community.”

He touched me. It lasted seconds. But he did. And I felt it, again. That _something._ He reached for my shoulder and I can only think about the fact that I’ve been playing volleyball for three hours and I probably stink. He doesn’t seem disgusted, but he is a well-mannered guy: maybe he’s just being kind. He just wants to put me at ease.   
I can’t speak properly. This is the person I had a crush on for six years and I’m here, finally talking to him, teasing him like a kid.   
“Did you say… did you say _dear_ ?” This is the only thing I can process. My mouth is dry.   
“Yes…? Is something the matter?”  
_I’ve never been “dear” to anyone._ I’m about to say it, but I look around and... “That’s my house. I think I should go. See you… this evening? I really should buy you another ice cream.”  
He seemed anxious there, for a second. But when I hint at seeing him again, he settles, looks pleased. He even smiles. _He’s happy_ . “It does seem like we’re neighbours. Go figure.” He chuckles. “Well. See you, then. _Buon pranzo._ ”   
He turns to go. I watch him walk away for some time, before heading towards the door. 


	2. Guagliò

I can’t believe it’s been a month, since Aziraphale and I started talking. Sometimes, it feels like it’s been a day or two; others, a lifetime.  
I haven’t changed my mind about him. If I have, it’s for the better. He _is_ a wonderful person, the most joyful and kindest human being I’ve ever met. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t deserve his company: he should be with people like him, with whom he can talk about books and culture; I’m really ignorant, if I’m honest.  
But he doesn’t seem to care that much: he tells me things that, if it wasn’t him talking, I’d probably snob.   
We haven’t been around the others much, this month: we were busy walking around the island or just hanging out at each other’s places. My heart still hopes something will happen, every time he looks at me. But those moments only last a few seconds. Then he shakes his head and smiles at me, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I just wish I could hug him.   
We don’t really hug. That’s normal: I’m not a hugger. Anathema hugs me, sometimes. Mum tries, but I avoid it as much as possible. I thought that was normal, for eighteen-year-old boys, until I saw Aziraphale with his mother. They seem to have a great relationship; she isn’t worried about me hanging out with her son (I know _I_ would be), she always cooks us snacks (really healthy ones: I wonder why, since Aziraphale loves sugar), and, most importantly, Aziraphale hugs her.   
It makes me feel weird stuff in my stomach. He’s eighteen, he hugs his mother in front of me…   
_Why doesn’t he hug me?  
_ Hanging out in his room is always kind of a mystical experience.  
He really likes Shakespeare. _Hamlet_ is his favourite work. I’ve only read _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ . I like the funny ones.   
I grab _Hamlet_ , quickly browsing the pages.   
“So… what’s your favourite part?”   
He reaches out a hand, gesturing to me to hand it over. “You know what you said, once, about Holmes and Watson?”  
“Yeah.” I hand him the book. “Of course I do.”   
He looks down at the book. “I’ve always thought… it’s not even the focus of the play, you know, there’s so much more happening in it, but Hamlet and Horatio… Horatio is everything that Hamlet cannot be. And at the end, when Hamlet dies, Horatio almost kills himself. It’s not that far from Romeo and Juliet, when you think about it.” He seems thoughtful and he’s quiet for a while. “Though it reminds me more of the Iliad, that.”   
_Iliad_ . I think I remember something about it. I never read it, though. “Oh, you mean… Patroclus and Achilles, right?”   
He gives me a little, sad smile and my heart almost breaks. “Yes, of course. Never fails to make me cry, that part.” He chuckles, then he whispers, conspiratorially: “I’ll tell you a secret, though. I cry easily.”  
I chuckle too, give a little shrug. “I almost never cry.”   
He looks at me with an inscrutable expression and he strokes the cover of the book; I can’t help but smile. “Well. Anyway. I guess there’s no _one_ part that I like best, this is a great play, and…” I make a face. “Oh, I know you don’t like tragedies, but tragedies are cathartic, don’t you think? I don’t think about stories that ended well at night, I think of those that went horribly wrong, and I just lie there in anguish. Maybe I’m a bit of a masochist that way.”  
I think about it. I don’t know how he can enjoy suffering. “I like to imagine things going well, even when they don’t end well. Like… alternative endings. Makes me feel better.”

Sometimes he does this: he gives me little bits and pieces of himself and leaves me wanting more. He’s like a puzzle that I’m slowly piecing together, and what’s best about it is I am not in any rush. Neither is he, I think. “What do you imagine?”  
His face flushes red. It’s quite adorable. I realise then that I might have asked an awkward question, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Um.. you know… _things._ Good things.”  
I feel a bit like teasing him, honestly. “Well, alright, I guess these will remain secret _good things_ ,” I say, mocking his tone.  
He swallows hard. “It’s not… you’ll probably think I’m insane. I’m _preserving_ you.”   
I place my right hand on my chest and say, solemnly, “I will not, you have my word.”  
“Um… Horatio and Hamlet… you ever thought of it as a love story?”  
“Well, obviously. I thought that was a given.”  
He seems to relax at that. _Honestly_ . Does this person not realise I am a raging homosexual? “Right. So. Holmes and Watson. They are…” he gestures vaguely, widely, with his hands. His hands distract me a bit. “... Together. In love.”   
“Yes,” I breathe, still a little spacey. “And?”  
“Nothing.” He makes a face that I’ve learned means he’s incapable of further rational thought. “I think about that. Like, them being happy. In love.”   
“Oh! Sure!” It now occurs to me that he’s probably not straight. It also occurs to me that I’ve been a bit dumb, not to notice it sooner. Unless fantasising about gay fictional characters is a new straight trend that I’m behind on. “I think about that all the time.” _What?_ “I don’t… I only mean…” I gesture toward him, up and down, which possibly doesn’t help my case much, “love? No, that’s not quite the thing. But, you know, people, finding…” I swallow. My face is burning. This is terrible. “Finding each other.”  
He’s now giving me a wobbly, lopsided smile. “Right. Me too. Somehow you just… _relate_ , you know?”   
“Yes, I…” I swallow, keep fiddling with Hamlet in my hands. “I think, especially… you know those characters that… this is going to sound stupid, it’s not even a proper category, but those characters that carry something heavy with them, you know, you can see it, and then find someone who seems to make that weight lighter? Oh, that means everything and nothing, doesn’t it? Anyway, that’s when I can relate. But I like tragedies, so things don’t usually end up very well for them.”  
He’s listening so carefully, more carefully than whatever I’m saying warrants, really. “Yeah, I… I can see that. Totally. Whatever is your weight, anyway, I hope it’s lighter. Now. With me. I don’t…” He seems to catch up with his mouth and regret his words instantly. “Not in that way. I mean. You know. I feel better. With you.”   
I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. I thought he was saying… but it doesn’t matter. We’re friends. I suppose. I should probably say something nice now, but not too nice; wouldn’t want to scare him away. “I like being with you.”   
_Way to sound friendly, Aziraphale, you old creep._

“Do you?” I sound more desperate than usual.  
“Sorry, that probably sounded a bit too intense.” He chuckles, nervously. _Of course he’s nervous, I’m being a freak.  
_ “No, I… I meant… you’re clever, I… I lower your standards. A bit.”   
“Don’t say that!” He seems mad, but… in a protective way. “I think you’re incredibly clever. Being book-smart doesn’t mean being clever. I think I’m incredibly ignorant in all the things that really matter.”  
I try not to look him in the eye, because he’s giving me an intense stare right now and I can’t handle it. I look at the book, and an idea comes to me. “What if… what if you read it to me? Maybe I’d give tragedies a shot.”   
He flushes slightly. He’s cute. “Oh, would you? I mean, my voice is a bit… I think it’s a bit annoying. Grating. I wouldn’t want to put you off tragedies forever.”  
“Nonsense. You have a beautiful voice, Angel.” _Too fast, Crowley._ Too late, I’ve already said it. But he does have it. A beautiful voice.   
Now his whole face is bright red, so much I’m scared he might catch fire. “I… Um, I…” _Oh no, did I break him?_ He clears his voice. “Thank you? I’m… glad you think so?”  
I swallow. “Good.” This is awkward. “So… do you mind? Reading it?”   
“No, it’s…” He swallows, then he starts browsing the book. “Do you want to sit down?”   
“Yeah. Cool.” We sit on his bed, next to each other. I grab a pillow, put it on my legs and gesture him toward it. “You want… put your head… like… so I can read it too.”  
He looks at me like I’ve said something horrible that he doesn’t know how to react to. “I… I…” He’s broken again for a second, then he seems to come to a conclusion. “You know what. Why not.” He lies down and wiggles a little to make himself comfortable. “Look at us being all _Dead Poets Society_ tonight.”  
“That’s my favourite movie!” I smile. “It’s kind of a tragedy, I know. But still.”  
He smiles back. I want to say he’s beautiful, with his head between my legs. I never hoped to be anywhere this close to him. I don’t. I _can’t_ . He looks at me tenderly. “See, we’re already halfway to turning you into a tragedy addict. Right, let’s see,” He lifts the book and starts searching. “I think I know where this is… here.” He clears his voice. “ _Dost thou hear?_ ” He glances at me. I smile. _Keep going_ , I mouth.  
“ _Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, and could of men distinguish her election, hath seal'd thee for herself_ .” I swallow. _Right_ . I… I can’t focus on the words when he looks at me like that. “ _For thou hast been as one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, a man that fortune's buffets and rewards hast ta'en with equal thanks._ ” He glances up again. “ _And blest are those whose blood and judgement are so well commedled that they are not a pipe for fortune's finger to sound what stop she please. Give me that man_ ,” he stops to emphasise this last part. I can’t stand looking at him. I’m a disaster. I’m probably the color of my hair by now. Why do I keep self-sabotaging? “ _That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him_ ,” he swallows. There’s so much tension in this room it could be cut with a knife. “ _In my heart's core_ ,” and for a moment I think he means _his_ heart, “ _ay, in my heart of heart_ ,” we sigh at the same time, “ _as i do thee._ ”   
We look at each other for… some time. I open my mouth. I… I can’t kiss him, right?   
“You said you had a bad voice.” I swallow, _do I still have saliva?_ “It’s not… you should… do this. Like. As a job. Is reading out loud a job? You’d be… great.”   
He laughs heartily. “Oh, you’re impossible. You’ll kill me, one day.” He softly pats me on the arm.   
“I have to go to the bathroom.” Too hot in here. Too hot. Too close. I have to run. Away.   
He’s looking at me so intensely today. What if… _what if he noticed it_ ?   
_Well, Anthony, it’s not a good idea to wear makeup under sunglasses.  
_ They’re dark for a reason. The darkest ones.   
I have to go wash my face. Now.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”  
He gets up quickly, basically throwing me off his lap, and stomps away.   
_That was awkward, wasn’t it?  
_ I was probably too flirty, but in a creepy way. Which is the only way I can flirt at all, apparently.  
I stay put, very still, straining my ear to figure out if he’s actually in the bathroom or if he’s left altogether. He seemed upset.  
 _Of course he seemed upset, you moron, he can see you want to bone him from a mile away.  
_ I play with my ring until my pinky feels about to fall off. Wouldn’t mind if it did. The pain would probably distract me from the shame.  
I hear the water running. Still here, then. Though he _is_ taking rather long. I hope he’s feeling okay.  
I look at _Hamlet_ on the bed next to me, still open at that blessed page. I look at the edges of its cover, crinkly and yellowed from the use and the salty air.   
“Fuck you,” I whisper. I immediately feel bad, though, and pick it back up. “Sorry. It wasn’t your fault. You are a very good story.”  
“You okay?”   
_Ah, shit._ He’s standing in the doorway, seemingly fine, glasses still on.   
Now he’ll think I’m not okay in the head. Creepy _and_ insane.  
I throw _Hamlet_ away again. “Fine! Tickety-boo.”   
_What the fuck.  
_ “Great.” He doesn’t seem convinced, if his raised eyebrows are any indication. Then he shakes his head and clears his throat. “So… this was fun. Sorry about…” He gestures toward the bathroom. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”  
“Oh no!” I shake my hands in what I hope looks like a reassuring gesture, but most likely looks like I’m having a mild seizure. I feel an intense need to apologise, but that would make everything even creepier than it already is. “Are you alright? Do you… need anything?” _Not from you, he certainly doesn’t.  
_ “I’m alright. I just wanted to ask you something.” _Oh, dear. Oh dear God spare me. May the Earth return me to a primordial microscopical state and spare me._   
He takes a breath, then says, “I know you don’t like Gabriel, but there’s a party, tonight. Anathema wants me to go but… I was hoping you’d come too.” He’s giving me a small, hopeful smile.  
My brain takes a second to catch up with what he’s just said, still stuck in panic-mode. “A party?”  
“Yeah, it’s… Gabriel always does these things. It’s in the _Piazzetta_. We don’t have to see him.” He talks as if he were trying to convince me. This doesn’t make sense. Why would he want to be seen with me? _At a party_? And why is he saying ‘we’?   
_This means he wasn’t creeped out. Count your blessings and say yes already, you idiot.  
_ “Sure, of course, that would be…” I said it alarmingly quickly, and I’m only just now realising that I’ll be giving Gabriel and the others a chance to make fun of me _at night_ , for a change. That should be fun. “Fun,” I finish lamely, my voice dying out.  
The enormous smile he’s giving me now, though, is more than worth the potential embarrassment. “Great!” He exclaims, a bit loudly, for some reason, then seems to force his face into a more indifferent expression. “I mean… great. I’ll text you the time, then.”   
“Wonderful.”

I sigh, and I check my watch. It’s 9 PM and Aziraphale promised me he’d come tonight.   
Well, he didn’t actually _promise_ me. He just said he was coming. Because I practically begged him. I feel a little guilty. I’m not sure parties are his comfort zone at all.   
_He’s doing this for me,_ I think. _I should be happy about that.  
_ I _really_ should. And this afternoon was definitely _something._ Would have been. If I hadn’t ruined it.   
I wonder if he’s _actually_ coming. Maybe he thinks I’m just a rude asshole, since what happened. But I had to run off. I was about to kiss him. And that would have been… awful. Fucking awful.  
He’s not… He doesn’t like me. How could he? We’re friends. And that face he made when I asked him to put his head on the pillow? That was awkward. I don’t know what I had in mind. He tried so hard to not seem revolted by the whole thing.   
“Waiting for your princess?”   
I growl, and my sister smirks at me. She’s the reason I’m here, torturing my hands in the middle of a party, not knowing where to look.   
She’s useful as usual. Always has a good word for her poor gay yearning brother.   
“Anathema… he’s not…”   
She pats me on the shoulder. “Gotcha. You want alcohol?”   
Now _this_ is her way of helping me.   
“Not yet.” She seems surprised. I have to control myself not to look like an actual idiot whenever I’m talking to him, without _drunk Crowley_ making an appearance.   
“Alright. I’ll be at the bar if you need me.” Anathema says, winking, and I nod.   
I look at Gabriel. Of course, he is already dancing, surrounded by girls. I wonder how he manages to control the anxiety, with them all around him. Then I remember he doesn’t have anxiety when he is in these situations, ‘cause he’s not gay.   
I didn’t have much fun at these parties last year. Always had to pretend to be someone else. That’s why I invited him.   
_Hell_ , I sure hope he’s coming.   
“Crowley!”   
I lift my head. _Aziraphale_ .   
“Hey,” I say, feeling a big smile forming on my face. I can’t help it. He looks cuter than usual, probably because his fashion sense is different from everybody else’s. In a good way, obviously. He’s unmatched even when wearing jeans and a shirt, which is pretty much what every other guy in my field of vision is wearing. He seems uncomfortable, though. Well. I can’t say I wasn’t expecting that.  
“You alright?” 

I feel ridiculous. Which is becoming a bit of a theme.   
“I didn’t know what to wear,” I say to him, before I can stop myself, before I even say hi. This has been bothering me since this afternoon.  
“You’re… you’re fine.”  
I look down at myself. He’s being nice, as usual. I’m just about to outgrow these jeans, and I’m not getting any taller, so I don’t mean in the good way. This shirt would look vintage and chic on someone cooler than me, and stuffy, clearly, on me.   
My hair is…  
Well. My hair is just my hair. Not much to be done about it.  
I look at him, and then I look at him some more. Crimson hair tied up in a low bun, leaning against a wall with his hands in those ridiculously small pockets. He’s dreamy. It’s almost unfair. And I can’t help thinking about us together from the outside, how odd we must look, how mismatched. A sharp contrast with how good, how natural it feels to be with him.   
I’m hopeless.  
And also, to make matters worse, we haven’t seen the others in so long. For some strange reason, he always finds a way for us to be alone. And yes, I _have_ considered that maybe he’s ashamed of me, thank you very much, and who could blame him if that were the case? But he invited me here today. Not as a date. It’s not what we do, dates; we are two friends, spending quality time together. Are we even friends? Oh, I hope we are. I have been trying so hard to be his friend. To look at him normally, to shove all the, well, the _rest of it_ where he can’t see it, but I’m afraid it shows sometimes. It’s bound to. Like today.  
“Angel? You okay? You think I’m too casual?” I consider him. He’s wearing another one of his band t-shirts - Queen, I know now, he’s had a chance to school me on the last two centuries of music - and tight black jeans. He looks hot. But I can’t say that.  
“You look, erm, entirely... appropriate.”  
“Um. Thanks. So… do you want me to buy you a drink?” He nods toward the bar area. He’s still wearing those sunglasses. It is a bit ridiculous when he does so at night, if I’m honest. Less effortlessly cool than in broad daylight. But I’m not going to mention it. And anyway, I _am_ thirsty.  
“Oh, I remember they used to make the most delicious wild cherry cocktail here! I can’t remember what it’s called.”  
“Um… you mean the Red Kiss?”   
“Yes! That’s it!” My momentary enthusiasm at the prospect of the drink is immediately replaced by the horror of the _double-entendre_ . I don’t know why, but anything I say to him always turns out to have some sort of romantic or sexual subtext. It’s exhausting. It’s like reality is conspiring against me.   
“You know how they call it here?”   
“Hmm?”  
“Il Bacio del Diavolo. The Devil’s Kiss. Ironic, right, Angel?”  
I wish God would descend from his heavenly throne and claim my virginal soul. Just to maintain the religious analogy. I have to laugh, or he’ll think this was a big setup to seduce him. As if I could seduce _anything_. “Right! How fun. How delightfully serendipitous.” 

His laugh is more forced than when he talks with Gabriel.   
“So… I’m gonna have a Sex on the Beach _._ ” I clear my throat. _Take the hint, c’mon._   
He doesn’t. He only goes redder and redder.   
_He’s straight. Enough with this madness.  
_ “Stay right here.”   
I sigh, and, before he can say anything, I walk to the bar.   
“One Sex on the Beach and one Bacio del Diavolo.” I say to the barista, pulling my wallet out of my pocket. Unfortunately, I’m not alone.   
“Sooo, little brother! Finally you’re treating yourself!”   
“Anathema.” I nod at her.  
“I see the angel kid came.”   
“I… Yes. But he’s not… You know.”   
“Oh, come on, now!” She almost screams. “The guy uses _delightfully_ unironically. There’s no way he’s straight, Anthony, believe me!”   
“So he’s not straight. Fine.” I say, unconvinced. “That doesn’t mean he likes me.”   
“You two are always around each other. There’s no way two gay dudes are around each other for a month straight without making out.”   
“He hasn’t told me he’s gay.”  
“So? Neither have you!”   
“Anathema…” I sigh. I don’t know what to say. “I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t find the right moment.”   
She smirks, and there’s something in that smirk that’s saying _I have an idea_.   
“I’m taking Mom and Dad to dinner tomorrow night. In Sorrento.”   
I’ve been there when I was little, I think. Still, I can’t see where this is going.   
“I’ll convince them to stay there for the night. You invite Aziraphale over and then…” She makes a rainbow with her hands, like that Spongebob meme. “The magic happens.”   
I’m not sure if I should be excited or scared. Maybe I’m both.   
“You can thank me, you know.” She teases me.   
“Alright. Thanks.”   
“Who’s the best sister in the world?” She is yelling, clearly amused.  
“You.” I really hope she’s leaving me alone tonight. I can’t handle the stress of being around her and Aziraphale at the same time.   
“Damn right I am. Have a _delightful_ night, little brother!”   
She storms away, not before messing up my hair.  
The barista comes back with the drinks. I pay and take both of them. When I turn around to check where Aziraphale is, I see he’s talking to Gabriel.  
 _Fuck_. 

“Azzy boy! You made it!”  
Ah. Of course. He waited until I was alone to strike. A perfectly adjusted predator in the ocean of teenagehood, Gabriel.   
“Gabriel. How are you doing?”  
“Oh, I’m on top of my game. What a night, huh? But how are you doing, Sunshine? We haven’t seen you in ages, got us worried there.”  
He lasted thirteen seconds before the first homophobic jab, this time. This must be a new personal record. I realize with a tinge of sadness that I’ve gotten so used to this I don’t even mind anymore.   
“Splendid, thank you for your continued concern.”  
“Been spending time with Toni, I see?” He smiles his shark-like smile, and _there_ my heart starts pounding. He can say what he wants to me, but Crowley doesn’t deserve any of this. I glance at him. He’s getting our drinks and talking to his sister. Lovely girl. She has a few strange theories about aliens and whales, but she’s always nice. Always stops for a chat when she sees me. They have the same curious eyes, the same captivating smile.   
“Oh, you know. Every now and again. He needed help with a few subjects, and…”  
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve been plenty helpful, Az.” He chuckles. The cat’s clearly out the bag. Perhaps the cat has never even been in the bag, or anywhere near the bag. I can’t bear the thought that my looking painfully, obviously gay might cause somebody else trouble. I won’t stand for it. I’m just thinking about name-dropping one of the new girls in town, or a boy, even, anything to take his attention off Crowley, when Crowley’s familiar voice cuts me off:  
“Hey guys! Problems? You okay there, Angel? Got us drinks.”   
“Toni, where have you been? Has Az been keeping you tied to a chair? Studying, I mean, of course.” Gabriel puts up his hands and laughs.  
“Gabriel. What a coincidence. You know, I never knew Capri was so big before this summer. Maybe that’s because all you do is play at the beach, so you have an excuse to show off your abs. Heard your team is losing the tourney, this year. Mad because you lost your best player?”   
For a second, only a split second, Gabriel looks taken aback and hurt. Then, his face turns back to normal, smug and mean.   
“Suit yourself, champ,” he tells Crowley, then pats him on the shoulder, so hard that he almost drops the drinks. “Be careful with this one, don’t let the snobbery rub off on you.” He gives me one final, vaguely disgusted onceover, then goes, “ciao” and walks away.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, really. I think maybe I was too mean with Gabriel. Usually I don’t care, but I hope Aziraphale isn’t thinking I’m an asshole.   
“What do you mean? _I’m_ sorry, if anything. I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”  
That hurts. “So you still think that? That it’s not a good idea? I thought we were having fun.”  
Maybe it was just me.  
“I’m just trying to protect you.” He whispers that so quietly that, for a moment, I think I’m just imagining it.   
“Protect me from what, Angel? I’m not scared of Gabriel.” _And neither should you_ .  
“Crowley, this is not about…” He hesitates. I think he’s looking for the right words to say this, whatever _this_ is, but he can’t find them, apparently. “Oh, never mind.” He grabs his drink from my hand and starts drinking it, emptying half of it in a second. “ _Boy_ , that is strong!”  
“Hey.” I’m slightly worried, now. He’s been acting strange since Gabriel left. “Aziraphale, what’s the matter?”   
“Nothing’s the matter, it’s absolutely tip-top. Er. Why don’t you… you came here to have fun, no? Don’t let me keep you from the dance floor.”  
 _I came here to spend time with you_ . I can’t say that, can I? Not when he’s like this.  
“I’m not leaving you alone.” I say instead. “Do you want a glass of water, hm?”  
“Crowley, you don’t have to… _babysit_ me, or whatever it is that you’re doing. I’m not a party-goer, you know this, I’ve told you. I’m perfectly alright having a few drinks and people-watching.”   
“So why did you even come here?”   
He sighs and then downs the rest of his drink. His eyes are starting to look a bit glassy, he looks intoxicated already. “Why do you think? Because you asked me.” His voice is tender. I can’t… He’s not… He’s not saying what I think he’s saying, is he?   
“Liiittle brother!!!” Anathema grabs me by the shoulder. She’s already drunk. “You know, I was just talking with this girl… Gabriella… and she says… _oh, last year I met this super cute guy, but this year I’ve only seen him once_ . So I tell her to describe him… and it was _you_ ! She really wants to dance with you. Whaddya say?”  
“Anathema… I’m… I’m with Aziraphale.”   
“Oh, yes.” She seems to acknowledge his presence just then. “Hi, Aziraphale. Do you mind if Anthony comes to dance with me and my friend for a while?”   
“She’s not your friend, you just met her.” I hate _drunk Anathema_ .   
“Hello, Anathema!” He sounds super cheerful. I wish he sounded like that when he does things with me sober, too. “Of course I don’t mind. I was just telling Anthony to go and have some fun without this ball chain of a friend he chooses to drag around.”  
“You’re not…” But, before I can finish the sentence, Anathema is dragging me to the dance floor. I manage to drink some of my drink, but then we bump into a group of people and, next thing I know, my glass is in pieces on the floor.  
I curse under my breath, and when Anathema finally stops walking, I yell in her face: “Just what do you think you’re doing?”   
“Making him jealous! Anthony, this is your opportunity, don’t you see?”   
No. _I don’t see._ I just wanted to spend a night with him.   
“He doesn’t like me, Anathema! Please, just leave me alone!”   
“Anthony!” A familiar voice makes me turn around. Gabriella grabs my hand before I can even say hi, and I’m suddenly dancing with her. I try to make eye-contact with Aziraphale, but he’s not where I left him. I look around for him, feeling sick and anxious. What if he _left_ ?   
I let out a sigh of relief when I spot him sitting next to the bar, and find out he’s already looking at me. 

So. That was that, then.   
I make my way toward the bar. If tonight has to go the way it’s started, I might as well get something out of it, by which I mean get spectacularly drunk. I’m obviously out of practice with alcohol, what with Mum and her health streak, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a natural. I order a Manhattan, please and thank you, and then sit on a plush pink stool to sip it, feeling like a caricature of myself.   
Much as I would like not to, I simply have to give into the urge to turn around and watch him. He’s already dancing with the girl, with Gabriella. I’ve got nothing bad to think about her. She is nice. I met her two years ago, and for two years she’s been going on and on about this incredibly good-looking guy that she doesn’t have the guts to approach. _Dovresti vederlo_ , she said, every morning, when she brought me my cappuccino and my croissant and stopped, more often than not, to have breakfast with me. _Sembra un attore. Ma non mi calcola proprio_ . And to think that I have encouraged her all this time, talk to him, I told her, _you’re so pretty, he’d be mad not to go out with you.  
_ And look where all that good-hearted advice got me. This is a good reminder never to talk to women about their dating troubles, ever.  
She is, at any rate. Incredibly pretty. With luscious dark hair and even darker eyes, and legs for days. Not that I care much about my own legs, not that they are much of an asset, in a man; still. And now she’s all over him, climbing him like a tree, moving her hips like _that_ . This is a hate crime against me, specifically. This should not be allowed in a free country.  
Is he enjoying himself? I hope not, but I can’t tell. Oh, no, oh, God, he’s put an arm around her waist. It’s over. I have to look away; but I have to look again. Why am I putting myself through this? They’re going to kiss, any second now, and it is going to destroy me. I am about to get my heart broken by someone I barely know, someone I was lucky to spend a few weeks with. This shouldn’t hurt this much. And as I think that, I drink up - as if whiskey and vermouth had medicinal properties.   
When I look up again, there’s no doubt - he’s looking at me. Over Gabriella’s lovely and naked shoulder, over her clear attempt to get a reaction, any reaction, out of him, he stares at _me_ .   
I stare back. And while we stare at each other - for, really, no good reason whatsoever - I think that he’s beautiful, and I think he did want to have fun with me tonight after all, and I feel sorry for myself.  
And then one thought over all the others: _no_ .  
Just no.  
This simply won’t do.  
“Another one, please,” I ask the barista, and, hearing my own slurred speech, whatever’s left of my voice of reason implores me not to do what I’m about to do. The barista raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. He’s probably seen plenty of people like me, drinking to forget. Except I’m not forgetting, not today. “Make sure you put the cherry on top? If you wouldn’t mind?”

I can’t tell what my body is doing right now. The only thing I can focus on - the only thing that actually matters - is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who’s looking at me like he’s never done before. I don’t think I, myself, have ever looked at anyone like I’m looking at him right now. And I can’t describe it. We just stare at each other, even when the barista hands him another drink and… this time… this time he doesn’t drink it.   
He takes the cherry on the top of the drink and wraps his mouth around it. And then he takes it out of his mouth and he starts to _lick_ it. He really does, I’m not hallucinating. And he stares at me. He stares at me the whole time, popping that cherry in and out of his mouth, that full, tasty, wet mouth of his, and I don’t know what happens but in my head that cherry is my mouth, then my cock, and Aziraphale… Oh my God, so beautiful. So gorgeous… so…  
I feel my body pressing against Gabriella’s, and it’s too late when I finally realise I’m _hard_ against her, and she asks me “Are you enjoying yourself?”   
I gulp, because _yes,_ _I’m enjoying myself_ , but not because of her. This is wrong, but I can’t keep my eyes off Aziraphale.   
So I gently push her aside, I mumble “sorry, I have to go,” and, without losing eye-contact with Aziraphale, I head towards him. 

Ah. Oops. Guess that was a little over the top. I leave my half-empty drink on the counter, almost dropping it with the way I’m rushing. My head feels like it’s full of cotton wool, I feel my heart - or is it the beat of this awful song? - pulsing in my ears, a sickly sound covering everything, people’s voices, my thoughts.   
_What the hell were you thinking, Aziraphale? What is he going to think?  
_ Who else saw?  
I make a run for the exit.   
I can be fast, when I want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! Let us know what you think! ^^


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